Surroundings
by cyko1003
Summary: [DannyLindsay] Everything around them is alive. How much harm can one mistake do? Oneshot.


Just a quick one-shot to quiet the bunnies that have been bothering me for the last week.  
Superhuge thanks to Boleyn for the quick beta.  
The regular disclaimer mumbo jumbo applies. :) Don't own it, just borrowing it.

* * *

His pillow stared at her from his side of the bed. The pillow. There was no head on that pillow tonight, no body in the sheets, warming them, stealing them. The pillow which could tell tales of nights of feeling her head, his head, their heads. But not tonight. Nothing the pillow lay vacant, still tantalizing her with his lingering scent.

The pillow had not known misery before, had never been cried into, until tonight, as she pulled it closer to her. The pillow had never been treated as a punching bag, nor as a Kleenex, nor as a supportive best friend. Until tonight. Tonight, the pillow knew only sadness and solitude.

At six o'clock, the alarm beeped its wakeup call. The clock was used to waking up to giggles and sighs from two people giddy as young schoolchildren, the unmistakable sound of puppy love. It was used to being told to 'snooze' over and over, sometimes for a full hour. The clock's blinking colon between the numbers usually told them time was ticking until they finally had to get out of bed. But today, it ticked closer to the time when she'd have to see him again, be face-to-face with him. And for the first time, the clock wished it could stop time itself, and let her sleep a little bit longer. Put off facing him, if only for an extra moment.

This morning, the coffee maker brewed for one. Only one. Sometimes the machine would think it was brewing for an army, only to realize that coffee had been spilled by two people laughing and blaming the mess on each other. Freshly-brewed coffee would mix in the air with newly-grinded beans, and a second waft of new coffee would only be moments away. But today, just one cup. And inevitably, today's pot would be half-empty.

The mug with the hearts sat ignored, today. The first time in its life with this owner. He would always pour her coffee in this mug, and a kiss would be shared in the steam of its contents. This mug knew only happiness and love, and the lovers' gentle touches. It knew of smiles and stolen glances. But not today. It had never experienced today. Today it could only sit and watched as she reached for the dark blue mug beside it, the one the other person always used. And as the cupboard door returned it to darkness, the mug could only feel the rejection that it knew she was feeling, too.

And she knew it was her fault. Even after everything they'd been through, after the waiting and the tears and the tension, she still couldn't take down the last brick around her heart. That brick had only known her private emotions from her darkest times – the fear, the hurt, the inability to understand. And while he had slowly helped her to dismantle the wall the brick had once been a part of, she couldn't bring herself to let go of this last piece, the last bit of a past she had tried so hard to forget.

That brick had driven a wedge between them, like a weight slowing her down as he continued to move forward. He had never let go of her hand, had always waited for her to catch up. He didn't rush her, he let her drag the brick along at her own pace. But after awhile, he'd started to wonder if she enjoyed dragging that brick, and he began to get frustrated with their apparent inability to reach the finish line. All she had to do was cut the rope that affixed the brick to her, but he could never get her to do it.

And now he'd finished the race without her, leaving her lying on the obstacle that she created and refused to conquer.

But she knew it wasn't his fault that she couldn't get up, that she couldn't finish. The brick laughed at her, mocking her. She would never let go of that brick. As much as she wanted to, she just couldn't.

His favourite sweatshirt did all it could to keep her warm, but it still wasn't enough to stop her shivering. It had never had to fulfill this task on its own before; its original owner was always here to help with that. Try as it might, though, she continued to shiver, continued to dampen its front. It tried to tighten its grip as she wrapped her arms around herself. Where was he? This was his job, this is what he always did. While the sweatshirt may smell of him and remind her of him, it wasn't a replacement for him.

The sweatshirt shivered as a knock on the door pulled her from her lonely spot on the couch. The air thickens with tension as the two stare at each other. Feelings of conflict reverberate through each thread as a mental ownership battle begins over the sweatshirt's rightful owner, and the person who needs its comfort.

If only they would realize that such a war shouldn't have to take place. The pace of her heart quickened against the sweatshirt, her hands nervously pulling at a loose thread inside the cuff. It hurt, but the sweatshirt didn't care. If that made her feel better, then so be it.

The sweatshirt waited anxiously as it sat between them on the couch. Neither would touch it, each insisting the other should have it. This war should not be happening! Why couldn't they understand?

The couch would have used its arms to push them together if it could, but it could only watch and wait. This couch had embraced their many evenings and nights of cuddling and falling asleep together before one would wake up and convince the other to move to the bedroom. It would envelope them, reminding them that they were each other's whole world. But now the couch could not will its arms to move, could not put up those blinders and make them see what was right there in front of them, what had been this whole time.

They had to figure it out on their own.

It sighed as they stood up and walked towards the door. The sweatshirt lay in the middle of the couch, ignored but not forgotten.

The door clicked shut. Normally they could not get the door to close between them. Not for lack of trying – they simply couldn't put a door between them. And now the door could only watch, one on either side, learning against it. Her with her back against it, him with his forehead. It wished it could just disappear and they'd fall into each other. It wished it could take a picture of one and send it to the other, make them realize what they were doing. Make them make it right.

The door could only watch as he lifted his hand to knock again, once, twice, each time dropping it back to his side. If only she would turn around and let him in, eliminate the barrier that stood between them. Eliminate _all_the barriers that were between them.

And while the door wished to high heaven that it could make itself disappear, the sweatshirt sat, wishing it could warm them again. The mug longed to feel both their hands around it. The coffee maker hoped for another full pot. The clock wished to wake with a smile, and the pillow wished to be laid on once more.

The brick could only laugh.

She looked down at the brick, the brick that stood in her way. It peered back at her, laughing. It always laughed.

But it was only a brick. A few square inches of dark, dense past. A few square inches standing between her and a future. She'd never realized the weight of the brick until now, when the future was slipping away from her, further and further out of her reach.

The door shook with a start as she whipped it open and ran after him down the stairs, brick in hand. It was now or never. The brick looked up at her mockingly as her eyes searched the streets for him, finally finding him, his back to her with his shoulders rounded, a few blocks down. She sprinted after him, and he turned when he heard his name. She took one look at him, looked down at the brick, and smashed it on the ground, its laughs dissolving into the night air.

His eyes searched hers, and she told him she was ready, that she could move forward. It took him leaving to realize how lonely a world without him would be. She couldn't explain how, but she'd learned that an empty bed only invited the cold, that waking up alone started the day with misery. How sipping from the same mug every morning reminded her of what they had, and how drinking the same coffee from the same pot was just another thing they shared. And how wearing his clothes was just another way they would always be inside and surrounded by each other, and how, in her apartment on the couch, they knew only each other.

That night, a fluffy pillow hugged two heads.


End file.
